


The Frailty of Genius

by Chiefest_of_Calamities



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:28:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiefest_of_Calamities/pseuds/Chiefest_of_Calamities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just wee (or maybe not so wee) drabbles about Lestrade and John's relationship with Sherlock. </p><p>Cross posted at ff.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lestrade

It's 2.00 in the morning and the sky is falling down in heavy droplets of water and wind. Detective Inspector Lestrade stands outside a nondescript block of flats in Holborn, coat turned up ineffectually against the downpour, wondering, as his fourth call in as many minutes goes unanswered, why he bothers sometimes.

_Inspector Lestrade is the rising star of the Met; his promotion through the ranks has been quick. He is intelligent, resourceful and tenacious, if he can say so himself. His partner on the beat once described him as a mastiff on the scent, a description that's not too far from the truth. He can, to borrow a clichéd term, think out of the box and within half a year of being promoted acquires a solve rate 5% higher than the departmental average. Despite being knee deep in the worst London has to offer, life looks good for him._

_Until the case of the missing Llandaff boys. Big words are thrown around. Paedophilia. Trafficking. Interpol agents descend on the Met. Press conferences take place every day; headlines are made every day. One afternoon, the two teams are in a meeting when a young man, who by the looks of him is not much older than the missing teens, barges into the room and starts spouting, in rapid-fire succession, why they're all wrong and how they're misinterpreting various bits of evidence and the first victim's mother's sweater and accuses Interpol agents of not being able to tell the difference between the MOs of trafficking rings and suburban housewives. By the time security drags him out, Lestrade's curiosity is piqued._

_He has good instincts; it was part of what makes him a good copper, and when the meeting is over he looks through the files for information on the first victim's family. Dan, his superior, catches him at it and laughs._

 

" _Don't pay him any mind," he says. "Sherlock Holmes has been the precinct nutcase ever since he got it into his head that we missed the murder of a kid who drowned in a swimming pool. He was 13 at the time."_

 

" _Oh," is all Lestrade has to say. The case doesn't ring a bell but he can sympathise, to some extent. Not everybody is strong enough to deal with life's many tragedies. "It's a pity when they die so young."_

 

" _Oh, no, not the drowned kid. Sherlock."_

_He blinks._

_When everyone leaves, after another futile night, he finds this Holmes fellow in the records. When he turns up on the 22 year-old's doorstep, it's difficult to tell who is more surprised. When he leaves, it is with his mind reeling at the impossibility of what he had just witnessed; at pure and simple genius. He doesn't dare believe the "consulting detective" until they have the criminal in custody, but he is right. For one glorious day, he feels like he's on top of the world._

 

Now, standing in the cold, he rues the day he decided look up Sherlock Holmes. Well, not really, but he wonders why God is so cruel as to give the world's most brilliant man the most abhorrent combination of characteristics possible. In the short span of a year, he has managed to alienate Lestrade from his superior (who doesn't take too kindly to being told he's an idiot). He drives seasoned officers, who deal with the scum of the earth without betraying a tick of emotion, into a seething rage within minutes of arriving at the scene. He doesn't ask; he demands. He dances around the scene of ghastly crimes, smiling and praising the work of the perpetrator, completely unhindered by the slightest sense of decency. His blunt refusal to even look at a case he doesn't consider 'interesting' causes as much resentment amongst the squad as his insistence on spewing the details of the private lives without the slightest bit of respect or regard for their feelings. More personally, he rues the fact that he has fallen from the Met's golden boy to 'the guy who calls Sherlock Holmes'. He has a feeling that his career will never fully emerge from beneath the vast shadow of that man.

 

Two weeks ago, for the first time since their paths crossed, he got a call from the detective asking whether anything interesting had turned up. Lestrade quite gleefully informed him that London had run out of psychopaths for the moment, and that he should be happy about it, like a normal person. He called almost twice daily after that, cajoling and scowling and cursing both criminals and the Met alike, as if they were conspiring to keep him bored. He turned up in the office a few days ago, ransacked the department's files himself and stalked off in a huff when his search turned up nothing he was looking for, leaving Lestrade's room looking like a hurricane had hit a paper factory. He was cattier than usual, and Lestrade found Anderson hiding in the shooting gallery, emptying clip after clip into the paper dummy with a vengeance. Lestrade had a couple of days of blessed peace after that, but he couldn't forget being surprised at Sherlock's desperation to find a case. It was the closest he had come to seeing him betray emotion of any sort. When this seemingly impossible murder turned up on his desk, he was out the door before he realised what he was doing; he was standing outside Sherlock's flat before he could ask himself why he cared.

 

He's about the leave when the main door swings open and a bunch of girls, in too short dresses and too high heels, totter out of the building. They're already drunk and he wouldn't be surprised if any one of them ended up mugged, raped or murdered tomorrow. Lestrade shakes himself of the thought as he bounds up the stairs two at a time to Sherlock's flat. It is with slight horror that he realises that the door is not properly closed and wonders for a second whether something untoward has happened to him. Fearing the worst, he pushes the door open quietly and enters.

 

The flat is a horrific mess; towering stacks of books, tossed haphazardly on the floor, over tables, papers; knicks, knacks, odds and ends everywhere. It doesn't look habitable. The sink is littered with various lab equipment, one of which is bubbling suspiciously. In the midst of all of this is the slight yet imposing figure of Sherlock Holmes, pacing a storm and scribbling furiously on a large piece of paper. So engrossed is he that he doesn't notice Lestrade standing in his doorway, jaw unhinged and manila folder tucked under one arm. Muttering to himself, he scratches furiously at the paper, which looks to Lestrade like a map of some sort.

 

"Sherlock!" he calls. The detective whirls around. His stomach sinks. He's a veteran officer, and it takes only one look to recognise the bloodshot eyes, the overlarge pupils, the flecks of dried blood around the nostrils.

 

Sherlock is at least coherent enough to connect the dots. He narrows his eyes and sniffs at Lestrade. "It's considered polite to knock."

 

Lestrade knows, but he has to ask. "Are you high?"

 

He gets an eye-roll in response. "The signs are pretty bloody obvious, I'd think, even for you."

 

"But why?"

 

Sherlock's answer, when it comes, is one single word packed with more resentment than he thought possible. "Bored."

 

It makes Lestrade inexplicably angry, much like the time he discovered his daughter copying answers to her math from the back of the book. "What the hell,

 

Sherlock! If anyone should know better-"

 

"BORED!" Sherlock barks back at him, furiously chucking the paper and pen into a corner with more movement than is necessary. His eyes fall on the manila folder and he practically lunges over the table at Lestrade. "Is that a case?"

 

"No." There is a flurry of unpleasant sensations in his chest now, some of which he never thought to associate with the well-bred man. Disappointment. Disgust. How many people know of his habit? Oh God, his career is fucked if it comes out that he has been consulting a junkie on a Class A drugs and letting him lay his hands all over confidential department information.

 

"I'm not an addict, Lestrade. Tonight is the first time I have used in several months and the high should pass in five minutes or so, which is probably all the time it is going to take me to solve your case. Give me the folder now." Sherlock speaks faster than normal, all the while thrumming with nervous energy.

 

"No. Forget it. Not while you're like this," he says, angrier than he has been in a while. "In fact, I'm never bringing you a case again."

 

That stops Sherlock in his tracks. He stills long enough to narrow his eyes at the Inspector. "You wouldn't."

 

"Yes, Sherlock, I will. Do you have any idea how you've compromised us? Do you have any idea the trouble I'd get into?"

 

"Go, then. You'll come crawling back eventually." He dismisses Lestrade with a cursory wave of his hand and resumes his frantic pacing.

 

It's not Sherlock's arrogance that makes Lestrade snap. Not the contempt lacing his words. Not the fact that he's grinning like a madman while he says it, high as a bloody kite. It's the knowledge that he is right.

 

"Fuck you," he snarls, enjoying the fleeting look of surprise on Sherlock's face.

 

Lestrade reaches the main door and yanks it open roughly when he realises that he is far from done with Sherlock. He stands at the open door for a while, swearing under his breath and stomps back up to his flat, plans for damage control whizzing by in his head.

 

The door opens and Sherlock's eerie, stoned grin greets him. "When I said you'd come crawling back-" he starts, but then catches himself, no doubt having read Lestrade's intentions in his face or stance or the way he's blinking, and says "Ah, you're not here about the case." Somehow, he's not surprised at the fact that Sherlock is sharper than most of his team even when he is off his face.

 

"Where is it?"

 

"Where is what?"

 

"The drugs, Sherlock, the fucking drugs. Where is it?"

 

He gestures towards the over laden coffee table, but there is disbelief in his eyes. "You can't be serious."

 

Lestrade pulls his badge from his coat and practically shoves it in the younger man's face. "Oh, I'm serious. I'm a police officer. This is a drugs bust."

 

For a moment, he is greeted by silence. Sherlock even stands perfectly, unblinkingly, still. Then he bursts into laughter. It is alien, disconcerting, and for a moment Lestrade can see what Dan means when he says that the younger man is sick in the head. He shoulders his way past the still giggling man and snatches the packet of white powder off the table, where it sat between a stack of sheet music and a copy of the Times. He sniffs it and is not surprised to find that it is almost odourless; whatever it has been cut with is clearly not run-of-the-mill detergent or baking soda. The detective is done laughing when he turns around, and Lestrade can see that he is beginning to come down from his high. A second, less cursory search of the table turns up a used syringe and a small vial of what he's sure contained a solution of some drug or another.

 

"What did you take?"

 

He can hear the eye-roll, even if he can't see it. "Cocaine."

 

"Only cocaine?"

 

This time he turns around in time to catch a withering glare. "I am well aware of the danger of mixing drugs."

 

"Is there more of this lying around somewhere?"

 

There is silence again, and Sherlock says rather reluctantly "Kitchen. Coffee tin."

 

If he thought the living room was bad, the kitchen is a veritable field of landmines. Every available surface has something sitting on it, whether it's the notes pushed into the toast rack, Bunsen burners by the sink or a jar of what looks like human fingers floating in formaldehyde. The kitchen does not appear to have been used for cooking. At least, he hopes not.

 

A similar sight of disorganisation greets him when he opens the cupboards. There are bottles of varying shape and size tucked into every corner, mostly filled with clear solutions, though some are brilliantly hued, and they are all labelled in a neat, spidery script. Hydrochloric acid. Copper sulphate. Phenolphthalein. He doubts that they have been acquired through entirely legal means and wonders why no one ever thinks to arrest him for theft. There is a tartan biscuit tin in there and he decides against opening it, mainly because of the odd, sritch-scritch noises whatever in it is making. The coffee tin – Illy, he notes – sits at the back of the cupboard and sure enough, has two vials of coke nestled in half-rotten coffee granules.

 

Lestrade is not naïve enough to believe that this is all there is, but he's not comfortable rooting around in the chemical spill of a kitchen for the very real fear of accidentally causing an explosion or something similarly unpleasant.

 

"Is there any more?"

 

There is no answer. He stomps back out into the living room, where Sherlock is sitting on the couch with his thumbs pressed against the bridge of his nose.

 

"Sherlock, is there any more?"

 

"Is this how the Met looks for evidence? Everytime I think I've discovered the depth of your incompetence, you never fail to prove me wrong."

 

"Sherlock."

 

The detective heaves a dramatic sigh and says "No, there isn't." Whatever high he was on before has obviously worn off, and, absent his chemically-induced elation, he looks terrible. Dark circles under his eyes accentuate his already pallid hue and makes him look skeletal. Curled quietly into the large couch, he looks too young to be living on his own, to be so well-versed with the many evils of the world. His hands tremble slightly and something wobbles inside Lestrade. Sherlock may have a superiority complex, a general disrespect for anyone or anything and absolutely no compassion, but he's still their ally. He's still a person. Still a life. Dan always said he had too big a heart.

 

"When did you last eat something?"

 

Sherlock shrugs. "Boring."

 

"Have you eaten at all today?"

 

Shrug.

 

"Yesterday?"

 

Silence. Lestrade takes a deep breath and reminds himself that Sherlock is just trying to irritate him into changing the subject and to do so would only be letting him win.

 

"You need to drink something or you'll dehydrate."

 

"Later."

 

"No, Sherlock, now." He's about to order Sherlock off the couch when he realises two things; one, Sherlock reacts to orders about as well as a cat and two, if he wants to get fluids in him, he's going to have to bring them to him.

 

He spots a cup with tea stains in it on the table, fills it with water at the sink and holds it out to Sherlock. "Here, drink this."

 

Sherlock takes the cup from him and almost drinks it. Almost. Lestrade's stomach sinks when the cup pauses on its way to his mouth and is sniffed instead.

 

"What?"

 

"I don't drink tap water."

 

Of course not. He wears tailored suits and travels everywhere by taxi. To think that he'd drink plain ol' tap water, why, that's just heresy. He stifles a sigh and walks back into the kitchen, hoping that there's bottled water in –

 

"Don't open -"

 

\- the fridge. Oh God. He slams the door shut, wondering for the first time whether Dan is right when he says that Sherlock is as much a psychopath as the people he helps lock up. He's grateful that dinner was over eight hours ago, too far gone to make a reappearance.

 

"Did you kill it?"

 

"No. Found it between Blackfriars and Temple."

 

He doesn't ask what Sherlock is doing haunting the tube tunnelling, because he really rather not know. Even if there is bottled water in the fridge, he is not going to be the one who retrieves it. He's contemplating the feasibility of popping down to the newsagent's around the corner when he spots the kettle on the counter. In the time it takes for the water to boil and for him to discover Sherlock's rather alarmingly large tea collection in one of the drawers, Lestrade tries not to observe the fact that the notes are in fact recipes for every chemical agent used in WWII. The flat is silent apart from the bubbling of the kettle, but it is an uncomfortable, oppressive silence.

 

By the time the tea is done, he finds Sherlock sprawled loose-limbed on the couch, the top three buttons of his shirt undone and his sleeves rolled-up. The cuffs of his shirt hide pinpricks he knows he will find in the crook of his elbow, if Sherlock were ever so careless to reveal them. He reconsiders the wisdom of giving him caffeine, but barring a sudden change in heart about tap water, it's the only way to keep the detective from dehydrating.

 

"Here," he says, holding the mug out. Sherlock reaches for it with one hand, and he finds himself holding it away from him. Really, does he have no practical knowledge? "It's hot."

 

Something flashes briefly in Sherlock's eyes, but it's gone before he can identify it. He waits for Lestrade to set the mug down on the table before taking it by the handle this time. He sips at it and almost immediately makes a face.

"There's no sugar in this."

 

"You're welcome, Your Majesty."

 

The impasse lasts for a while; Lestrade stands by the table, wondering just what he is going to do, and Sherlock flops dramatically on the couch, sipping at his tea.

 

"How long?"

 

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him; coming from most people, it would seem like an almost friendly way of posing a non-verbal question, but Lestrade knows enough of the detective to recognise it for what it is – a sign of his temper wearing short.

 

"I need to know. How long?"

 

"I fail to see what relevance that has to anything."

 

"Damnit, everytime I bring you onto a case, I put my career on the line! If anyone finds out that you've been high all the time, I'm finished."

 

"I've never worked high."

 

"How reassuring."

 

For some unfathomable reason, perhaps just to spite him, Sherlock just shuts down after that. He closes his eyes, mug still clutched in his spidery fingers, rests his head on the armrest and resolutely ignores anything Lestrade says to him.

 

Finally, he gives up and says "I'm going to have to report this, you know. There will be an investigation. A prosecution, maybe even a custodial sentence."

 

He stuffs the evidence into his pocket and walks to the door. Sherlock does not acknowledge any of this, and Lestrade hopes he has enough self-preservation instinct to properly clear his flat before they come knocking on his door tomorrow.

XXXXX

 

He walks home in the pouring rain, not at all surprised that his wife left him. Who wants to be saddled to a man who is himself a slave to his job, who comes back home at almost four in the morning, dripping wet and haunted by flickering blue eyes? Not for the first time, he wonders whether Sherlock has any family to speak of. His file names two inconsequential persons as his parents; a political advisor of some sort and a professor of literature, and a brother. His father is dead. Of the mother and brother there is no news. He wonders whether they care; whether Sherlock, for all his brilliance and condescension, is simply a child who wasn't hugged enough.

 

He wonders whether his heretofore absent family will hire a good barrister, possibly a silk, to defend him at the trial, or whether he will have to rely on legal aid. He can try to convince CPS not to press charges, but he knows that there are people higher up in the ranks of the Met who want nothing more than to see the detective brought down a notch or two. One thing he does know for certain, though, is that when the inevitable shitstorm that follows this blows over, assuming he still has a career at that point, consulting Sherlock again will be out of the question.

 

Before tonight, he would have been concerned only about the effect of that on him, on his solve rate and of course on the pursuit of justice. Now, he begins to wonder what something like that will mean for Sherlock; a short month without any cases has reduced him into a junkie, so what will permanent deprivation do? He appears to need the cases, no, the  _thrill_  of the case, as much as people need air or food or love.

 

And that is when Lestrade identifies the weight that has been resting in the pit of his stomach since he first saw Sherlock's blown pupils; disillusionment. As an Inspector and a veteran of London's battlefield, he's not a wide-eyed, idealistic do-gooder who believes that the world can be saved. He knows that he will never make his city a better place, but is merely a soldier in a perpetual game of cops and robbers. But Sherlock, he realises, he's come to see as some sort of hero. Sure, he's easier to hate than most of the criminals they run into, but he's a force of good and he's on their side. Sherlock does nothing to dispel the image, what with the way he sweeps onto the scene with that massive black coat billowing behind him like a cape, completely in control and utterly devoid of emotion, of weakness. Lestrade has come to view him as someone who cannot be brought down by mere human failings, only to discover that his hero is all too human.

XXXXX

 

He calls Sherlock the next morning, at around nine. Quite surprisingly, his call is actually answered.

 

"What is it now?"

 

"Did you drink anything since last night?"

 

Sherlock huffs. "I have been using cocaine since before you were made Inspector and I have yet to kill myself."

 

He thanks God that he's at home alone, using his private line. "Listen, go out and get something to eat. And drink. You're no use to me half-dead."

 

There is silence on the other end of the line. "Are you trying to get me out of the flat? Much as you think you're being merciful, I would rather be here when your mook squad arrives because I have three experiments running that they will not have the intelligence not to disrupt."

 

"Why would my mooks be coming over again?"

 

"Are you playing games with me?"

 

"Listen, Sherlock, starvation and dehydration must be getting to you. I can see no reason for anyone to raid your flat. I mean, I was there last night and all I could see was tea, coffee and a mole-rat-thing the size of a small dog, and as long as it stays that way…"

 

Sherlock must have gotten the message, because he falls silent again. "Did he put you up to this?"

 

Now it is his turn to be confused. "Who?"

 

Sherlock makes a sound which he has, in the course of a year's acquaintance, come to define as 'I can't be bothered to share this piece of information with you'. Lestrade sighs wearily and continues, reminding himself that he cannot change his mind now that the evidence is sitting at the bottom of the Thames. "Look, just get yourself sorted, alright? Get some help. There are clinics-"

 

Dial tone. Ah, well, no surprises there.

 

As he walks to work, he wonders why he put his career and freedom on the line for a man he doesn't even like. Why he put aside his own moral compass for someone who would never even think to do the same for him. And try as he might, Lestrade can't think of an answer to his own questions. On the bad days, he wishes he can shoot Sherlock and be done with it. On better days, he doesn't really feel the sting of the careless barbs he tosses about while he goes on to do their jobs better than they can. The best explanation he can come up with, and even that is unsatisfactory by far, is that he has become accustomed to having a back-up plan, a secret weapon of some sort, and somewhere along the way, stopped thinking about him in such terms and started seeing him as a friend.

XXXXX

 

Four days pass, and another body turns up. Dan keeps casting him an odd look, probably wondering why he hasn't gone running to his pet detective yet. Indeed, when he got the call this morning from despatch, he was tempted the give Sherlock a call, but he hasn't yet for fear of what he might find.

 

He's hovering by the scene, watching the forensic team carefully draw chalk lines around the victim when Dan huffs suddenly. Looking up, he catches sight of a tall, lanky figure ducking under the police tape. Lestrade quickly abandons his post and manages to catch him before he makes it closer to the scene, but before he can start glancing him over for signs of drug abuse, Sherlock says to him, voice pitched so low that only they can hear it, "I'm clean."

 

"Good." He means it. Grabbing a pair of latex gloves from the forensic kit, he hands them to Sherlock. "What do you need to know?"

 

Sherlock takes the gloves from him. "I've got everything I need," he says, gesturing at the gruesome scene before him. Then he adds, more quietly, "Thank you."

 

And there it is again, the odd feeling of warmth spreading to his cold, cold fingers. It takes him a little while to identify it and when he does, it's all he can do not to laugh at himself. God help him, he's grown fond of Sherlock Holmes.

XXXXX

 

_As always, this is your friendly neighbourhood dragon reminding you to leave a review :P_


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John.

He wakes up, heart rate quickly picking up when he realises that he is not in his room. It's too big, the walls oddly painted and the bed unfamiliar; his fingers twitch, longing for the safety of his gun.

 

And then he remembers. 221b Baker Street.

 

A wink.

 

Sherlock Holmes.

 

That brings a smile to his lips. Then he realises what woke him up; the sound of rushing water. John lets his eyes slip shut as he concentrates on the sound. It takes only a moment to indentify after that; it's the sound of the shower running.

 

In spite of himself, a happy glow spreads through his chest. His smile grows into a toothsome affair. The flatmate he saved from a murderer last week is downstairs showering and will no doubt soon be clattering about doing whatever it is consulting detectives do when they aren't brilliantly showing up Scotland Yard.

 

It is infinitely, indescribably better than waking up to silence.

 

The sound of flowing water lulls him back into a dreamless sleep.

XXXXX

 

There is not one single flat surface, barring the floor, in the flat that Sherlock has not commandeered for his vast and impressive collection of  _stuff_. The flat is empty when he comes down and John takes this opportunity to have a good look around the house.

 

In the end, he compiles a mental list of the things Sherlock has, which includes:

 

Taxidermised bats

 

A wooden rubics-cube thing with odd symbols

 

Newspapers that date back to the turn of the 20th century. John has a niggling feeling that these belong in a museum or library instead of being carelessly tossed by the windowsill.

 

A vat of industrial strength bleach under the sink

 

Enough lab equipment to cover the kitchen table and fill two of the overhead cupboards

 

Persian slippers. A pack of Benson and Hedges cigarettes is stuffed in the toe of the left slipper.

 

More mugs than a single human person should need. Half of them are stained, though, and not just with tea.

 

Three teapots

 

A tank of oxygen

 

Still, it is what Sherlock does not have that truly throws John for a loop. Nowhere in the flat can he find:

 

Cooking utensils. Whilst Sherlock has at least one of every piece of cutlery known to man, there is nothing that he can use to actually cook a meal. Not a single pot. Not one pan.

 

Alcohol.

 

A filing system of any description. There are so many files stacked in the kitchen and living room that the flat probably constitutes a fire hazard, but they don't even sit squarely on the shelves. There are more books in the flat than he's seen in some libraries; as a consequence, they are stuffed into the cupboard by the fireplace until the shelves sag and piled high on any surface that'll bear them. There are nine bookshelves in the living room and kitchen alone; he's counted. A journal about Jack the Ripper sits next to a Bible. The 1991 edition of Science and the Future is separated from its 1997 counterpart by the New Oxford Textbook of Psychiatry and Volume 2 of the Children's Encyclopaedia. Volumes 1, 3 and 4 sit on the lower shelf. John resists the temptation to reunite the lonely volume with its kin.

 

Sherlock comes bounding up the stairs at that moment, the morning papers tucked under one arm. He carelessly drops all but one on the table by the couch and John just knows that they will stay there unless he moves them. He doesn't have time to think about it, though, because Sherlock has shoved the Guardian under his nose.

 

"Look, John, you'll want to read this."

 

He takes the paper from him; on the page he sees a small photograph of Lestrade, still looking somewhat harried.

 

"What's this?"

 

"An article about the cab driver affair which takes even more liberties with accuracy than your blog post. I thought you might like being exposed to writing more incompetent than your own." Sherlock shrugs out of his coat, hangs it up behind the door and wanders into the kitchen. "Tea?"

 

"Yes, thanks." John settles into his armchair, back sinking into the Union Jack pillow. He's about to start reading when he notices the skull staring at him.

 

"Yes," he says to it. "Alright. Place needs to be tidied, I know. Just let me have a cuppa first, yeah?"

XXXXX

 

John only agreed to have dinner at the super chic Le Gavroche because Harry threatened to drop in on his Baker Street Lodgings otherwise, on the misguided notion of looking after her little brother. He keeps his tongue firmly in check as she downs a bottle of Chianti and pushes her shrimp salad around her plate, and tries not to antagonise her with questions about Clara or her work. He sits through the entire miserable dinner before dragging himself home  _funny how quickly he's ascribed that word to 221b_ , looking forward to drowning his thoughts in a menial task of some sort, like cleaning or putting away the weekly shop.

 

He is halfway up the stairs when he hears a scream coming from upstairs and his heart leaps into his throat. He takes the stairs two at a time and throws the door open, calling out for the detective.

 

"Sherl-"

 

The word dies on his tongue. Sherlock stands by the window, violin perched on his shoulder and bow resting on its strings. At his intrusion, Sherlock lowers the bow.

 

 

"John."

 

"I...there was a noise."

 

He gets one raised eyebrow in response. Sherlock then drags the bow over the strings.

 

Oh dear God. John can feel his toes curling at the ensuing squeal; it sounds like someone amplified the sound of a fork and knife scraping together.

 

"I believe I told you I play the violin when I'm thinking."

 

John remembers every second of their first meeting, and isn't that a sorry testament of how enamoured he is with this madman? Not at the moment, though. Still, Sherlock did give him fair warning and if a man couldn't practice his violin-playing in his own flat, where else would he do it?

 

"Yes, of course. Erm, carry on, then. I'll just be going up now."

 

No verbal response is received, but Sherlock manages something impressive in eliciting an even more horrific screech from the instrument in his hands.

 

It carries on past midnight. He has tried stuffing the crack of his bedroom door with the carpet and plugging his ears with the earbuds that came with his phone. Nothing helps. Any affection he may have had for classical music has completely evaporated and he gains a new appreciation for the patience his parents must have had to put up with his clarinet. Then again, he was never this bad. In fact, Sherlock must be the single worst violinist in existence; the man might be a genius, but manual dexterity he has not.

 

At 2.00am John relinquishes any hope of sleep and wanders downstairs for tea or something stronger. Sherlock is perched on the back of his chair, cradling the instrument of torture. At John's entrance, he stops playing. The momentary silence is nothing short of bliss. He nods in greeting, but Sherlock seems to be waiting for a reaction from him; he stares at John unabashedly, studying him as if he were a particularly interesting experiment. And then it clicks. Maybe this was why Sherlock was looking for a new flat, or a new flatmate. Maybe whoever else he lodged with earlier, who might have put up with the various corrosive acids and skull finally snapped after being kept up once too often because of the violin practice.

 

"So, have you worked it out yet? Whatever it was you were thinking about?"

 

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "It was a trivial matter. Did you sleep?"

 

"Nope." He walks into the kitchen, fills a kettle with water. "Not for one bloody moment. Pretty impressive, considering that I slept through the bombing of Basra once."

 

"You don't seem too upset."

 

John shrugs. "Yes, it's annoying. Beyond words annoying. But I don't have work tomorrow or the day after, at least not until I get a job somewhere, so it's not like I can't sleep in late." He doesn't say that he cannot work up the energy to get angry about this minor display of insensitivity after having to helplessly watch Harry self-harm again; after being filled with rage at his own impotence and her destructive streak. "My parents put up with me trying to learn to play the clarinet. I guess this is some sort of karmic retribution."

 

Surprisingly, Sherlock's features soften slightly. "It must have been a grating experience, still. I didn't intend to go on for quite so long." He settles the bow on the strings once again. "Any requests?"

 

That throws John for a loop. The invitation is sincere, he can tell that much, and there is no way he can turn it down without bruising some feelings in the process. Still, the prospect of having to listen to Sherlock play again, especially now that he has had a break from the relentless cacophony, makes his heart race with something akin to panic.

 

He has been silent for too long, because Sherlock frowns again. "I assumed you are familiar with some compositions, although this might have been an oversight on my part. Perhaps you could name a composer and I'll pick one of their more popular pieces."

 

Oh God, it was getting worse and worse. Get a grip, John, he tells himself. You've seen war, surely you can sit through another quarter of an hour or so of bad playing, especially when Sherlock is trying so uncharacteristically hard to be accommodating. Now, what was the easiest thing he learnt to play?

 

"Pachelbel?"

 

Sherlock's expression immediately changes to one of disgust and disappointment. Well done John, you've gone and picked something he clearly has issues with.

 

"Actually, I rather like Saint Saëns." It's true; one of his fondest memories of school was performing the complete version of the Carnival of the Animals with the band.

 

Apparently pleased with John's selection, Sherlock slides into his seat, adjusts the angle of the violin on his shoulder and starts playing. For a moment, John is not entirely sure what he is listening to; there appears to be music _actual, breathtakingly beautiful music_ coming from somewhere. Slowly, he realises that the music is coming from Sherlock, whose eyes have now fluttered close as he coaxes the finest notes from his violin. Finally, the disbelief gives way to indignant almost-rage. He sputters. Sherlock stops playing.

 

"Is something wrong?"

 

"You...you can play!"

 

When he doesn't say anymore, Sherlock says "Really, it was rather rude to interrupt me just to-"

 

"Then what the hell was that...the...that..." there is no word in the English language for the discordant series of sounds that he was subjected to earlier "...thing earlier?"

 

"It's still called playing the violin." He even has the gall to look miffed.

 

The word 'why' nearly falls off his tongue, but stops. Does it really matter why Sherlock wants to play badly? He doesn't seem to have done it to irritate John and from the looks of him, he is growing more and more ruffled at this line of questioning. Maybe his genius brain sees some sort of appeal in the un-musical notes. Or maybe he's just an intransigent bastard. John has seen enough fighting, both in Afghanistan and before, to know that some battles can't be won. He does not ask himself why he is so willing to make so many concessions to Sherlock's unreasonable behaviour, because the cane lying in the corner of the room is reminder enough of the debt John will always owe him. He does not ask himself why it is so important to him to show Sherlock that these things, these irritants which cause the Yarders to call him "Freak" and to take pleasure in tearing his home apart, will not drive him away. He does not ask himself why he wants  _and he wants so badly_  for Sherlock not to be lonely.

 

Luckily, the kettle pops at that moment. John disentangles himself from his comfortable chair and heads towards the kitchen. "Go on playing, then. I'll make us some tea."

 

The tea steeps to the most excited, joyful rendition of Saint Saëns' Les Cyne that John has ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head-canon, Sherlock can and does make tea.


End file.
